A Gentleman's Secret
by Totally-Out-Of-It
Summary: Stiles Stilinski has lived 19 years without revealing his secret preferences. But when the Hale family moves into the county, Stiles in swept up into the gravity of the eldest son. Propriety tells him to keep his distance, but can he ignore the urges pulling them ever closer? At first sight, Stiles is already undone. SterekWeek2015 SterekAltEra


Written for SterekWeek2015's Day 2 Prompt - Alternate Universe/Historical Era

Balls were never a favored part of Stiles' life. Contrary to what this suggested, he actually loved to dance, and he loved the food, and he loved seeing his friends. These were not the things he disliked about balls. What he disliked was who he had to dance with, being forced to meet people he had no desire to meet, and then being forced to acquaint himself with those people at a later date as though they were friends because of propriety.

He'd rather stuff his face full of pulled pork in the most unsightly manner imaginable than meet another entitled family passing through the neighborhood for the season that he was expected to entertain during their stay. The only thing keeping him from doing so was his father, who knew where his mind went and kept him far away from the food if any new or important guests were expected to arrive that night.

"Try not to be as sassy as you normally are," his father asked with a tired sigh, already expecting his requests to fall on deaf ears. "I'm serious, Stiles. The Hales are a very nice family, from a long line of money, and we'd be lucky to have them stay in the area. It would do amazing things for the county."

"Yes, I know." Stiles sighed and straightened his suit jacket just as a footman announced the arrival of the new carriage. "No promises, Father. But I'll try."

"I honestly expect nothing more," his father said, and it sounded so much like defeat that Stiles actually prepared himself to outdo those low expectations.

Sure he'd been less than friendly to the Argents, but hey they only settled one county over. And right, he'd been a bit rude to the Blake family, but seriously – the daughter looked like a murderer. A very siren-esque murderer. What was he supposed to do? Hang out on the sidelines and play nice while she murdered all the poor, susceptible virgins in town with her sweet words and killer smile?

Not that Stiles had been in any danger of her skills, but that almost made her more dangerous for him. Because all the young men in Beacon County had fallen in love with Miss Jennifer Blake the moment they saw her – all the young men except Stiles. Luckily, Miss Blake's pride had been injured far more than her mind had been tipped off, and she left without a single hint of Stiles' nature being revealed to the public outside of his already well known sarcasm and incidental rudeness.

But not tonight. Tonight he would keep in all that sass. Or he'd make a damn good effort of it.

The Hales entered as a pack. Leading at the front was a beautiful matriarch, dark hair and slightly tanned skin. The man beside her was pale in comparison but obviously her husband. He was forgettable beside her, lost in her all-encompassing glow.

"Mr. Stilinski, am I correct in presuming?" she asked as she approached the two men, hand extended.

"You would be correct," Mr. Stilinski agreed and took her hand, kissing the back of it. "Mrs. Hale, it is a pleasure."

"Oh it is us who have the pleasure, I assure you. We've been quite looking forward to your ball," Mrs. Hale said and turned to Stiles. "This is your son?"

Mr. Stilinski nodded and presented Stiles with a grand wave of his hand. "Yes, this is Stiles."

"Stiles Stilinski," someone jeered, and the voice originated just behind Mrs. Hale. A creep of a man, just as pale as Mr. Hale, stood there, and he did not look ashamed of being heard. In fact, under Mrs. Hale's disapproving stare, he merely shrugged and then pushed his way to the front to shake Mr. Stilinski's hand.

"Peter Hale," he greeted. "A delight, I'm sure. However, we've traveled quite a distance and I'm rather hungry. If you could point me in the direction of the food?"

Wow, if the universe wanted to punish Stiles' past inability to be civil, it sure had a severe way of doing it. How was he supposed to be nice to such an ass? Mrs. Hale seemed decent. Her husband seemed nonexistent. But this guy? Impossible.

As soon as Peter left to join the festivities, Mrs. Hale spoke again. "I apologize for my brother. He's not accustomed to…"

"Basic civility?" Stiles asked and then internally winced as the sass already seeping from his tone. His father glanced briefly in his direction to show he hadn't missed it either.

But Mrs. Hale was smiling. "Precisely. But here, allow me to introduce the rest of the family. These are my three children. Miss Laura Hale, my eldest. Derek Hale, my only son. And Miss Cora Hale, my youngest."

Although not sounding disapproving, Mr. Stilinski still had to ask, "Both daughters out at once, ma'am?"

"Well it would hardly seem fair to bring everyone but one simply because one daughter is older," Mrs. Hale reasoned, and her charming smile showed she took no offense to the inquiry.

But Stiles wasn't listening much – which was probably good for his sass levels. He'd been caught on Derek Hale, whose skin was a blend of his parents – not pale but not really tanned either. His serious eyes were staring unseeingly at the side room, where the ball was in full swing, and he did not appear happy to be there at all. In him, Stiles saw every emotion to mirror his own, and he was at once enraptured by him and also insanely jealous of him.

If Stiles were to brood so openly, no doubt he would be scolded or asked to seem lively. Derek Hale showed on his face exactly what Stiles felt for this party that was both his and not his at all. And he looked so good doing it.

While their parents spoke, Derek's eyes slid over to Stiles and the two young men found themselves locked in a staring contest. Derek's hair was slicked back and his hands were clasped behind his back, and Stiles couldn't get over how handsome he looked in his formal wear. He wondered, or he hoped, that Derek thought him to look just as well dressed and attractive, but if he did, he gave nothing away in his expression. Chest tight, Stiles turned and bowed slightly to Mrs. Hale, ending the staring contest.

"Mrs. Hale. Mr. Hale. Father," Stiles said. "Excuse me. My friends have arrived."

And the McCalls had arrived several minutes before the Hales, but Mr. Stilinski saw the retreat for what it was and didn't stop him. Stiles just had to get out from under the intense gaze of Derek Hale. He strode quickly away into the crowd but did not approach Scott, his only true friend. Sure, he went in the direction he knew his friend to be, but Scott was engaged in a dance – or probably his third by this point – with one of the only two Argents to frequently visit town, Miss Allison.

Stiles wouldn't interrupt their time together, not to escape one or two stupid stares. No, he could find enough escape just standing on the edge of the room and watching Scott dance to his heart's content. Chances were slim that any of the Hales would approach him there.

When the new family did enter the ballroom, several people took notice, but the music did not stop. A few men approached to ask for the Miss Hales' hands in the next dance, and it seemed two were accepted, but Derek was not approached by anyone and he did not single out any lucky young lady. He stood directly opposite Stiles, a good hundred feet away and with plenty happening between them, and yet Stiles could not stop looking his way.

He was not alone in the struggle, it seemed, as he caught Derek looking over the party at him as well on multiple occasions. But maybe he wasn't even looking at Stiles. Maybe he was watching the dancers. It was quite possible.

"Stiles, you have to dance with me," was insisted by Miss Lydia Martin, appearing at his elbow and drawing his attentions away from the brooding new addition to Beacon County.

"Lydia, you know I don't dance," Stiles reminded and could feel Derek's eyes on him.

"No. You don't dance with people you don't like. You like me. It won't be awkward. Come on." She took his arm in hers and motioned toward the front room with her eyes. "The Whittemores just arrived."

Laughing, Stiles bowed his head in submission and agreement to the dance and she tugged him onto the floor just as the current dance ended. "You can't avoid him forever. Eventually we'll both be tired of dancing."

"By then he might be otherwise engaged and I will be saved from dealing with him," Lydia said in way of agreement, but Stiles knew she was not so unkind as to force Stiles on the dance floor for more than a couple of songs.

Unable to control himself, it seemed, Stiles sought out where Derek had been standing, but found the spot empty. He tried not to be disappointed. After all, those brooding eyes threatened to undo his greatest held secret. And yet he was anxious about where the other had gone.

The music for the next dance had just kicked in when he noticed Derek had also joined the dance floor, and had positioned himself directly across from the girl beside Lydia… putting him directly beside Stiles. The dance was Hole in the Wall. Great.

Stiles bowed to Lydia, who curtsied in her beautiful evening gown, and then he stepped around Derek, so close he could have pushed him, and he felt his nerves skyrocket. Derek's eyes were on his partner, but as Stiles then passed in front of him, holding Lydia's hand, Stiles was sure Derek's eyes followed him. Then it was Derek bowing to his partner and passing close behind Stiles – close enough that Stiles thought he could feel the other's body heat through both their jackets – and then passing in front of him with his own partner.

As Stiles met Derek's partner in the middle, to bow and spin to take her place in the line, he took note of her. She was tolerably handsome, he supposed, with a small nose and a few pale freckles, and he tried to remember her name. Was it Peyton? No, it was Paige. Paige with pale skin and dark hair and a mole just under her left eye, and did Derek find her pretty?

Derek met Lydia in the center and turned to take her place in the line and then his hand reached out to Stiles. His stupid heart needed to calm the heck down. It wasn't a personal dance invitation. Derek was also reaching for his partner, just as Stiles was meant to be reaching for Derek and Lydia both. Only a half beat too slowly, Stiles slid his hand into Derek's and took up Lydia's as well, and they formed a circle.

When he lifted his eyes from his hand in Derek's, he found the brooding man looking at him, but then they both smoothly directed their eyes toward their partners, and Stiles smiled at Lydia to hide his racing heart. She grinned back as they all walked a few steps to the left and found themselves returned to their original places.

They dropped hands and Stiles had to flex his fingers multiple times to get the tingle of Derek's skin from his mind. And then the dance began again, with Derek and Paige leading instead of Stiles and Lydia, and God this was going to be the longest song of Stiles' life.

Stiles managed to stay with Lydia on the dance floor for the remainder of Hole in the Wall and even a round of Well Hall, in which Derek and he had to pass close so often that Stiles thought he'd die from holding his breath so much. After that song ended, however, he had to excuse himself from the floor.

"Are you alright?" Lydia asked, following him to the edge of the dancing. "You look overheated, but you usually last at least four dances."

"I guess I'm just not feeling well," Stiles lied and cast his eyes back to the dancing, where Derek had honored Paige with a third dance. He must like her very much.

And yet Stiles was able to catch Derek's eye during one of the casts, which made no sense, because Derek's eyes should be on the dance floor, not in the crowd. He looked only a little less tense than when he'd arrived, and Stiles wondered if it was because of Paige.

"Well I don't think Mr. Whittemore is in the dining hall, so let's go eat. I mean, you can eat. I'm not hungry. But I can't have you passing out on me. You're my escape, and you have responsibilities to uphold, you know." And Lydia led the way through the crowd and toward the sweet smell of cooked meats and wine.

"I would never do that to you Lydia," he said with a smile and she rolled her eyes as though she didn't believe his sincerity.

Some men would find it too embarrassing to have their women feed them, but Stiles couldn't hold in his laughter as Lydia offered him slices of meat, uncut, but expected him to eat them whole anyway. He had to stoop slightly to accommodate her antics, but they had a good time together regardless. True to her word, she ate nothing, but Stiles was full by the end of their games, and he'd let Derek pass from his mind, so his face and neck were no longer red from exertion.

Lydia did not ask him to dance again, something in her expression saying she knew more about why he'd stopped than he'd ever admit, but they did spend a good portion of the party together – the only exceptions being when Stiles was called away to greet a prominent family with his father and when, just near the end, Lydia finally graced Mr. Jackson Whittemore with a long withheld dance.

Despite almost subconscious, anxious glances about the rooms throughout the rest of the night, Stiles did not catch sight of Derek after the dancing. He found Mrs. Talia Hale and her husband conversing easily with many other couples of notoriety, and Cora was dancing with every eligible man in the room – and some not so eligible, as though trying to pick the best one to set her eyes on, and Stiles even spotted Peter Hale, half drunk on wine, flirting shamelessly with a pair of blushing girls, but he did not catch sight of Derek or his sister Laura for the rest of the evening.

A scattered brain was unhelpful at a garden party. There was minimal dancing, which Stiles preferred, but this also suggested he needed to talk to people, and while he had no problem conversing, he did have a problem concentrating on who to speak to, or if he should join a game of lawn tennis or croquet, or if he was requested to play cards or if some new dish was ready in the food tent, or was Scott there yet?

Scott would most likely want to croquet as soon as he saw it was set up, and Stiles would readily join him, as would Allison, no matter how many of the old people whispered about it behind her back. Luckily, the party was not held by the Stilinski's this time or Stiles would be needed for greeting or inducing the men to gather and talk of politics or some other shit, and Stiles really hated having to do that. He didn't even like most of the people he knew by acquaintance, much less than required to pretend you were interested in their so-called struggles with spending beyond their means.

No this party was held by the Hales – a show of status in a new neighborhood, and quite a show it was. They even had archery going. But with his scattered brain, Stiles was just continually proud of himself for not searching out Derek every spare moment he had.

He was about two minutes from screaming out in boredom and a need to do one of a million things when he spotted Mrs. McCall stepping onto the green, her son in tow. Scott's eyes were scanning the area, presumably for signs of Stiles, when a hand slid over Stiles' shoulder and stopped his forthcoming call for his friend's attention.

"Glad you could join us, Stiles," the sickeningly suave voice of Peter Hale said as the owner of it slid around to be in Stiles' peripheral view. "Will your friend be along shortly?"

"My friend?" Stiles asked and pulled away from Peter's grip. "If you mean Miss Martin, then no. The family is out of town for a week."

"Pity. She was quite a pretty thing," Peter lamented and clutched his goblet in his long, bony fingers. "Is she much engaged, do you think?"

"Too engaged for you," Stiles snipped back. "Zero that hunter vision on someone else, Mr. Hale. She's as good as spoken for."

Peter made an interested, pleased sound, but Stiles didn't stick around to hear anything more. Talia Hale was kind and motherly, her husband continually forgettable, and her children well mannered, but her brother was proving to be the kind of snake Stiles would prefer to cut the head off before risking a potentially poisonous bite.

Anyway, Lydia might not be engaged as of yet, but the dance she had going on with Jackson Whittemore was more than obvious to anyone paying attention, so Peter needed to keep his nose turned far away from her.

"Stiles," Scott greeted excitedly. "Have you seen Allison? The Hales have archery! She loves archery."

"No. The Argents haven't graced us with their awesome presence. Well, unless she's still inside, putting her things down. But until she does, brother, I have so much to tell you. Peter Hale is a letch," Stiles said and led Scott to the side of the pathway that led down to the games.

He regaled Scott with a rather flourished version of Peter drunkenly hitting on innocent girls at the ball and then of his asking after Lydia, and Scott was just as shocked as Stiles on that part. "But isn't she calling after Jackson?" he asked. And that was response enough for Stiles to fill with pride, because this was just further proof that he was right. Everyone knew of Lydia's affections. Peter Hale needed to mind the hearts of those he toyed with and move on. Move out of town, if he could. That would be preferable.

No sooner had Stiles and Scott finished gaping about the gall of Peter Hale than did the Argents arrive on the lawn. With an excited but apologetic look at his friend, Scott excused himself, but he didn't need to apologize. Stiles waved him off with all the acceptance a friend could give, and watched with a smile as Scott and Allison descended toward the archery range, talking quietly to each other, heads close.

But now Stiles was alone again, and while he loved Allison like a sister now, he couldn't help but be jealous of her. She consumed all of Scott's attentions as soon as she walked in the room.

Out of the corner of his eye, Stiles thought he saw something of interest, though he couldn't explain why. He saw no glimmer of light, no large shadow, no bright colors. And yet he turned his head toward the house, and there, by the back door, was Derek Hale, watching him.

Stiles swallowed thickly, his smile leaving his face, and he wondered how long he had been observed without noticing. Then Derek turned and entered the house without a raise of his eyebrow or a twitch of his lips in either direction. He gave no signal of approval or disdain, and it really irked Stiles more than he could say.

Though he had not seen a motion to follow, Stiles still found himself ascending toward the house and walking in past an elderly couple stepping out into the sun. He apologized as he bumped the wife, and once inside he glanced around for Derek, but the older man was nowhere to be found. Stiles walked into the hall, where framed photographs of the family had been hung with all the immediacy required when entering a new neighborhood and preparing for polite society. The pictures were regal and pretty, everything propriety expected, and they chronicled the rise of all three Hale children from birth in the form of yearly family portraits.

Derek was a cute kid, as was Laura, but Cora never minded the others and often posed just off from where she ought to be. Stiles liked her best in all the photos, a wild card among the stiff nature of portraits. He himself had been a jittery one during the photos he and his family had accumulated. Although the Stilinski family tried always to smile, there was a tiredness around the elder's eyes ever since the loss of his wife some ten years prior. Happily, Stiles saw none of that fatigue of loss around any of the eyes in the Hale family photos.

"This area of the house is not part of the party," a husky voice announced, and Stiles turned abruptly to find Derek Hale at the top of the staircase on his right.

"My apologies. I was just curious," Stiles said. "And anyway, every part of a house is part of a party."

"Not a garden party," Derek argued calmly, descending into the hall beside Stiles.

Stiles snorted. "You must not be very familiar with the nature of parties. Guests are going to wander – you know, unless you put up fences or lock the doors."

Well, he'd found Derek. Now what was his plan? Oh right. He didn't have one. Cause he was an idiot. Curiosity could only be an excuse so far. Eventually he was going to slip up and Derek and everyone else was going to figure him out, and then what would he do? He'd cast his entire family line into shame… and he couldn't bear to do that to his father.

"Mm, perhaps next time I'll make the suggestion," Derek said and stepped into Stiles breathing space. "Fences to keep out the curious foxes."

Stiles took a step back, his head too full of Derek to concentrate on a proper witty response. He glanced down the hall, back toward the entry way, and he worried some other curious mind would soon wander in and see the two of them, alone in the hall. Were Stiles a woman, it would be scandalous enough. Being a man, he might have some wiggle room to lie about his racing heart, but he doubted the wiggle room would last a second encounter… if a second encounter ever occurred. And damn it, he needed to focus on the encounter right now instead of worrying about future ones.

"Are you alright?" Derek asked, curiosity in the back of his throat.

Returning his eyes to his host, Stiles forced himself to breathe. It was just a conversation. Alone. With Derek Hale. "Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?"

"It's just… most men look at me like I'm trying to steal their women," Derek admitted. He took a half step to close the distance between them before he seemed to think better of it and stepped back instead. "But you look like you're afraid I'm going to steal you."

"Excuse me?" Stiles asked, and shit, Derek could tell. Stiles was being too obvious. Damn it. He needed to control himself. He'd gone nineteen years without letting anyone know his secret. Well, he'd told his mother, but she'd been dying. His guilt wouldn't let him stay quiet and let her go without knowing.

"I'm not planning to hurt you," Derek explained and took another step back, putting the proper distance between them for new acquaintances, and though his nearness made wit harder, Stiles mourned the new space. "I apologize if I've done something to frighten you."

"You?" Stiles managed to laugh. "Your uncle, maybe, but never you." He caught himself before he could say too much and shook his head. "Excuse me, Mr. Hale. I should return to the party."

But Derek's voice caught him only two steps down the hall. "Derek," he said. "My name is Derek. My father is Mr. Hale. And actually, so is my uncle. Call me Derek."

Already on a first name basis? But that wasn't so odd for friends, was it? Stiles called Scott by his first name, after all. Stiles worked up a smile and turned to face Derek bravely.

"Stiles," he said. Then, imitating Derek's deep voice, he said, "My father is Mr. Stilinski."

The tease earned him a small smile and then Derek nodded his head, giving Stiles leave, and the younger hastened to his escape. Reentering the green, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The party was lovely and everyone in the county had showed up – but maybe it would be best if the Hales left town. At the rate he was going, Stiles was going to end up carving his secret onto the public façade of Beacon Hills, and then everyone would know and everything would be ruined.

The Hale men like to hunt – fun fact. Another fun fact – Stiles did too. Just not today. He didn't mind the nature, the trampling through the woods, the camaraderie of the friends you took with you. In fact, hunting sat quite well with him if he went about it with the right company.

Well, he did minded the killing a bit. In his life, Stiles had shot and killed a few rabbits, a couple pheasants, but never had he truly been able to shoot a deer or moose. If it was larger than a household pet, Stiles was a lost cause. He could see them too clearly, see their eyes on level with his own, and he could never pull the trigger on his rifle.

Scott was similar and yet opposite. His fondness for his own pets kept him from shooting the smaller game, but his family's business was ground heavily in the trade of meat and he could shoot a stag from twenty yards without issue. Stiles' father owned half of Beacon Hills' farmland and collected fees from the farmers who leased it. Ask Stiles to harvest tomatoes and he was your guy, but not to shoot a deer.

If it were just Stiles and Scott, and perhaps Mr. Argent, Stiles could enjoy a hunt just as well as any proper man. But not this hunt.

Peter was an expert shooter, it seemed. He led the hunt with vigor and stopped every few minutes to explain how the two younger men were doing everything wrong. After an hour of it, Stiles stopped trying to do it right and just meandered lazily in the back of the group – which also included Mr. Argent and the Mr. Whittemores.

For the last several moments, they had been still in the brush, and then a gunshot echoed through the trees and Peter claimed the first kill of the day. Servants quickly moved in on the carcass, to prep it for transport home, but Stiles turned away from the sight. He looked, instead, up at the birds that were restless from the noise.

"Not a fan of the hunt, I see," Derek commented at his shoulder.

"Not a fan of the company," Stiles corrected, although Derek was technically right. He looked down at Peter, triumphantly explaining to the others why he'd managed the first kill over them.

"The whole company or just the leader?" Derek asked, and when Stiles turned to look at him, he found Derek leaning in close, so close that when he breathed, the crisp morning air fogged right into Stiles' face.

He slowly let out his own breath, watched the steam puff into Derek's face too, and willed his wild heart to calm. "Well I guess if I'm being honest-," he began.

Derek cut him off. "I'd never ask you to be dishonest," he said, as though Stiles needed the assurance.

"Then I'd have to admit the leader leaves much to be desired. And if he keeps it up, I might mistake him for a deer by the end of the day," Stiles admitted, and that level of truth about a 'respectable gentleman' was far more than Stiles usually let himself say, especially to a family member of said gentleman, but Peter was driving him insane and Derek was close enough to breathe, so… you know.

But Derek didn't look insulted. In fact he looked amused. He inclined his head in silent agreement with the sentiment before speaking. "You'd have to be able to shoot a deer to make that matter," he said.

Peter's loud voice carried over, urging the party onward, and the two pulled apart with deep breaths, as though they had been yanked apart by third parties. But they were undisturbed by the others. In fact no one seemed to be paying them the smallest mind.

"Come on," Derek said with a grunt and started off after the others. Jackson Whittemore was starting a soft argument with Peter, something about giving other people a chance next time or whatever.

"Are you saying you don't think I could do it?" Stiles asked, stepping quickly after Derek. "I could shoot a deer."

"Maybe. I have from a reliable source that you've never shot a deer in your life," Derek said, with a small wave in Scott's direction. Traitor.

"True, but I could. If that deer had greasy hair and a big nose and answered to the name Peter." Stiles almost slipped on the dew ridden grass, and Derek touched his elbow lightly to give him a moment of support before dropping it. "Thank you."

"Of course."

When they next hunkered down in wait for a distant buck to come into view, Stiles knelt in the bush by Derek of his own free will and watched the back of Peter's head as he and Jackson continued to whisper battle over who got first shot this time.

"I'd appreciate it," Stiles whispered, leaning close to Derek, "if, when I take my shot, you don't attempt to stop me. My justice shall be swift and, I'm sure, blessed by our heavenly father. So there's no sense in trying to stop me. Plus I'd hate to accidentally shoot you in his stead."

His hand was on the ground, balancing him, and when Derek shifted to answer, his hand brushed half over Stiles' before the other quickly pulled away, embarrassed. Stiles was embarrassed too, but he just cleared his throat and scooted his hand a bit farther away.

"I'm sure," Derek said, keeping his eyes low and not on Stiles, "that I would have no objections."

Then he shrugged and raised his eyes to the rest of the party just as Jackson shot and missed, effectively scaring away the wanted buck and any others in the near area. Peter was unhappy about the turn of events and then the two were shouting at each other, which brought Mr. Chris Argent into the feud, trying to diffuse the already exploded bomb. Peter shoved Mr. Argent back several steps and that got Mr. Argent shouting, and Stiles only caught something about reporting Peter, but everything got really quiet after that. Peter started apologizing and bowing quite a bit.

Derek leaned a bit closer in the new silence and whispered, "Although it would be a shame to have you thrown in prison for a man as ridiculous as my uncle. I'd save your bullet for bigger game."

"I'll be sure to alert you when I find some," Stiles assured, and then stood and joined the rest of the party to escape his own embarrassment.

It didn't take long for Derek to walk into the group, but they didn't speak again. The fight had dashed the spirits of the party and they all agreed that the missed shot had spooked any good game remaining, so it was decided that the hunt was over for the day. It was a sore note for some, since only one animal had been taken down, but there was no joy in staying, so there was very little point to continue.

On the walk back, Stiles fell to the rear once more, but Derek did not tarry with him. For a moment he was melancholy about that, but then he was just annoyed. In Derek's place, Peter Hale himself had fallen back in step with him.

"So Stiles, I hear you're not a big game sort of man. I wondered if I could interest you in lessons at some time. Perhaps we can improve your aim and the steadiness of your shot, and then maybe next time you can bag a beast yourself instead of being impotent at the back of the group," he said, and though the words might have come across as kind, Stiles heard them for what they were, a jeer.

In a smooth movement, he raised his rifle up and pointed it right at Peter's head. The older man startled, and then Stiles shifted his aim a foot to the right and let off a shot. The sound brought the whole company to a stop, turning to see the damage, and from their angle it appeared Stiles was still aiming at Peter, but Peter was unharmed, although a bit rattled.

Glaring at Peter, Stiles lowered his weapon and stepped around the man. The servants hurried in the same direction, and from the brush they lifted the carcass of a grey coyote a short twenty feet from Peter. Scott called out Stiles' name in praise while the older men in the party wondered how long the beast had been tracking them before revealing itself.

Stiles pointedly did not look at Derek. As soon as the servants had the carcass, he walked back to Peter and, in an angry, hushed tone, he said, "Just because I don't shoot, doesn't mean I can't. I don't want your help, and I never will."

Then, in a wild twist of events, Stiles was at the front of the group, leading the way down the path toward home.

Beacon Hills was a nice name for the capitol of Beacon County, and the name fit nicely too. Rolling hills that ended at the shoreline in one direction and ended at a river in the other just before turning into actual mountains. Beacon Hills was beautiful, and it made sense why prominent families would want to reside there. But that didn't mean everyone who lived there was of the same caliber as the countryside.

Stiles and Scott were in town one day, escorting Lydia and Allison on a quest to find the proper ribbons and bonnets for the next ball, when the perfect example of the antithesis of their county appeared. Alright, so Jackson Whittemore was not purely the antithesis, but he wasn't very high on Stiles' list of civil company.

The Whittemores had lived in Beacon Hills for almost as long as the Stilinskis, but the current heir to the name threw his weight around as though they had been settled there for generations before another prominent soul had arrived. Perhaps this was the reason Stiles disliked him. Perhaps Jackson was simply unlikeable.

Which was why Stiles could never quite understand why Lydia continued to flirt with him.

"Out looking at ribbons, I see," Jackson said in manner of greeting upon finding the two men. The ladies were several feet away in the shop, comparing colors so they would match but not match to the point of seeming to try too hard at it.

"Yes," Scott agreed, smiling. "Allison is making a new dress and I was more than happy to help her pick out a color. Are you here to help Lydia?"

With a sour scoff, Jackson replied, "I don't pretend to care about ribbons, McCall. I care about the hunt and the horse, and if you had any real hope of winning Miss Argent's affections, you would focus more on both instead of picking out which shade of blue matched best with her lips."

Stiles couldn't help himself. The words just slipped out. "Actually, Miss Argent is looking into reds. It matches the brown of her hair and compliments her lips far more than the ghostly blue you'd have her wear. Also red fits with the fire of Lydia's hair, and they want to match. I mean, of course you care what Lydia wears, am I right?"

For a short moment, Jackson just pursed his lips, but then he was scoffing again. "Stilinski, you are disturbingly defensive of women's priorities. Next time we go hunting, perhaps we should leave you to knit with the ladies."

"Perhaps next time, I'll allow the coyote to eat you," Stiles reminded.

With a derogatory sniff in the young mens' direction, Jackson sauntered off to converse quietly with Lydia. Beside her, he smiled and even seemed to be commenting positively on the shade of red she had so far chosen. His hypocrisy did not slide past Stiles' senses and the younger man found himself scowling.

"Oh, look around, Stiles," Scott said with sudden shock. He was motioning out the window. "Mr. Hale and his sisters are outside. Do you think he's helping them shop for the upcoming party as well?"

"Maybe. Maybe they have not even been informed of the party," Stiles suggested, his eyes trailing over every visible part of Derek Hale.

He was taller than either sister and his face held just a shadow of a beard, which Stiles found irregularly handsome. Of course his clothing only enhanced his overall image, and Stiles was certain every woman in the county was already in love with him to some degree. But the more disarming feature of Derek Hale that afternoon was the warm and beautiful smile he had when talking with his sisters. Stiles was quite undone.

"You surprise me, Stiles. No one would host a party and not invite the Hales. How could you say such a thing?" Scott asked, affronted on behalf of the entire family. Then he grinned. "And here they come into the shop. Great luck. I haven't been properly introduced to Mr. Hale and my mother will be happy to hear I've corrected the issue. I've been a bit afraid to talk to him. Have you noticed he's always scowling? But he looks happy today. Maybe he's actually kind."

Chest aching, Stiles wished the siblings would divert their walk, but they did not, and soon they were stepping across the threshold of the shop. He already knew Derek was kind. They had not spent much time together, but Derek had never shown anything but the truest civility toward Stiles, a kindness he was not accustomed to in the heirs to well-known families, excepting Scott, of course.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Hale. Miss Hale. Miss Hale," Scott greeted, bowing his head in turn to each sibling.

"Mr. McCall," Laura Hale greeted in return, curtsying and then lightly nudging her sister to do the same. "What a surprise to meet you all here. I'm certain we did not see you in the window."

Impossible, Stiles thought, since they were standing in direct view of it. But perhaps their eyes had been on the displays of silk in the window and not on the occupants beyond them.

"Are you here shopping for yourselves?" Miss Laura continued.

Scott's smile was disarming as he motioned toward the ladies and their gentleman. "No, we're merely the sounding board for Miss Martin and Miss Argent. Did you want a gentleman's advice too? I'd love to be of service. Although you have your brother. I'm sure you don't need me. Oh, my apologies. Mr. Hale, we have not been formally introduced. I'm Scott McCall. I should have addressed you sooner."

"Not a problem," Derek assured, waving Scott's entire introduction aside. "And Mr. Stilinski." He turned and bowed his body slightly in Stiles' direction. "Always a pleasure."

"Right. You as well, Mr. Hale." And he couldn't help the slight question in his response, because hadn't they just clarified that they both disliked being called by their last names? At least by each other?

Then, Scott's attention back on Laura for the moment, Derek winked at him, and Stiles relaxed. Of course. Propriety. They'd barely met each other. Referring to each other by their Christian names in public so soon could be seen as too informal for such a fledgling relationship.

Cora stepped up to a putrid shade of green fabric and touched it hesitantly. She looked unsure, and Stiles quickly stepped to her side, the need to save her from fashion atrocities too strong to ignore.

"Believe me, Miss Hale, that color doesn't look good on anyone," he explained quickly. "If you're going for green, I'd probably suggest the emerald one on your right. It'll match your pallor far better."

"Impressive," Miss Cora said, but she did not look impressed. "You reacted much sooner than I expected you would. Are you a common invite on shopping excursions?"

"I feel as though you're trying to embarrass me," Stiles said matter-of-factly, "but I should let you know that you've failed. I find no shame in being as familiar with fabrics as I am with rifles. For starters, my mother used me to model the hang of her fabrics quite often. For seconds, Lydia is very knowledgeable on these subjects. And I admire both women too much to find their passion worth forgetting. Beyond that, I like seeing people in outfits that bring out the most in their appearance, and you'd look fantastic in emerald. Not this."

He motioned to the other fabric as if to say 'go look' and she did, slowly and with her eyes still on Stiles. He had surprised her, he knew, and he felt the appropriate amount of pride over that. Subconsciously, he glanced at Derek and found the older male just turning away, an amused expression toying with his eyebrows.

Then Laura caught his attention by speaking again to him. "Mr. Stilinski, your friend tells me your family has lived here since Beacon Hills was founded. Perhaps you could do me a favor. My brother was interested in riding trails but is unfamiliar with the terrain. Perhaps you could show him about some day or even direct him to the best shop where he may purchase a new riding crop and boots. He's worn his quite down to the soles."

A smile could only show a modicum of how excited the news made Stiles. "I would be delighted," he exclaimed before reigning himself in. He looked to Derek then. "Of course, only if your brother would allow the help. I know some men like to find their way on their own, and I wouldn't impose- I mean, I suppose I would impose, but only if I thought he was missing out. We have some wonderful riding trails, for all levels of riders."

"You think I'm not a good rider?" Derek asked, voice deep, and Stiles couldn't tell if he was teasing or honestly affronted.

"I never said that," Stiles said and shrugged easily. "But I doubt you're as fine a rider as me. I have it on good authority that I'm the best rider in the county."

"I was not in the county until these past two weeks," Derek pointed out, eyebrows rising, and he was definitely teasing now. "Perhaps someday we could have a match of it and let our peers decide."

"Perhaps," Stiles agreed, smirking. "Please don't be too disappointed when I come out the victor. Poor sportsmanship is not an attractive quality."

"I hope you will remember such sentiment when you find yourself the loser," Derek said in way of agreement to the challenge.

Laura rolled her eyes and sighed, taking Scott's arm. "Come take a turn about the shop with me, Mr. McCall. Fate willing, I'll bet your eye is just as good as Mr. Stilinski's, and I cannot watch this banter any further or I may retch. Please come. I need just as fine conversation as my brother."

Scott laughed but agreed and the two walked off to examine colors and fabric. Stiles would warn her that Scott had as much of an eye for fashion as a pig had for which gruel was best, in that he knew very little at all, but they were already gone.

Turning back to Derek, Stiles found himself suddenly embarrassed. He once again had Mr. Hale's full attention and he had no idea what to do with it.

"Well your sisters seem charming," he tried as an opener.

"I think upon further acquaintance you'll find Cora too coarse for a proper young lady, and Laura is about as fine as anyone can be expected to be, but if you'll take my word for it, that on its own is quite annoying," Derek said, smiling slightly.

Stiles thought back to the warm grin that had adorned Derek's face outside and wished it had lasted into the conversation with the men. Even now he wished any comment of his own could draw out a semblance of that glow, but so far it was all smirks and fleeting smiles.

"Well you seem to like them very much," he said, "and that should be enough for anyone. It would be enough for me, I'm sure. I'll just have to get more acquainted with them and prove them more civil in company than you give them credit for."

After a moment's pause, where Stiles cast his gaze around the room for where the two sisters had gone and then spared another glance toward Lydia and Jackson, he thought of an addendum to his declaration.

"Although, I don't wish to deepen my acquaintance with your uncle. You understand. So perhaps we should keep our meetings free from prying uncle eyes."

"We shall keep our meetings free from all prying eyes, I'm sure," Derek agreed, and his voice was so somber that Stiles had to turn back to see him in order to gauge what had changed. He saw a hint of that warm glow in Derek's eyes, although he could not account for what had put it there.

Before he could inquire about it, they were interrupted. Lydia slipped onto Stiles' arm to show him the fabrics she had chosen and then Allison stepped up to show the ones that matched. Stiles replied with animation, approving both shades of red. Jackson hung back, muttering quietly with the shop owner.

"And of course you shall have to add some bit of red as well to your own outfit," Lydia said, looking over the clothing Stiles was currently wearing as though he were already dressed for a ball. "Otherwise you won't match either of us. And we need to ensure Scott has red too, but Allison, my dear friend, will be sure to make that a certainty."

Again, Stiles agreed, and Lydia began speaking of which shade would look best with Stiles' black dress clothes. Derek, Stiles noted, had lost the warm glow and in fact looked much less keen to be in the shop than he had moments ago. It appeared he did not like fashion nearly as much as the ladies, and now that the conversation had turned to such a topic, he was at a loss.

Stiles felt a little bad for him, but caught in the energy of Lydia and Allison, he could spare not a moment to help bring Derek into the fold or assure him of being at no fault for being uninformed.

Something Stiles loved-

Balls were odious because they involved a majority of people Stiles didn't trust or didn't like or was barely acquainted with but required to know. Dancing was alright when done with friends, as were most things in life. Garden parties were like balls but with less dancing and more sports, which made them more enjoyable. Though his inner thoughts may suggest otherwise, Stiles was a favorite to invite to such events because he often entertained others while playing croquet with purposeful artlessness and could be a fun addition to many conversations… if he decided to put in the effort.

But something Stiles loved, almost regardless of whom he was with – something he loved more than anything else in the world was horseback riding. A ride was the perfect cure for his ails, whatever they happened to be. Sometimes he rode to escape bad company. Sometimes he rode for a sense of freedom. Sometimes, like this day, he rode to escape grief.

He was an accomplished horseman and expert jumper, but he didn't ride for show or sport. He rode for the simple joy of riding, of feeling connected to his steed and the wind rushing by him and the countryside he rode through.

Often, the sight of the ocean was enough to clear his mind of anything, but as he came within sight of it, a week after the excursion to the fabric shop, he found his mind filled more than ever. He knew why, of course. This was no ordinary grief. He'd experienced it before – once a year in fact for the last six years.

Roscoe, his beautiful pinto steed, stood five feet from the edge of the cliff, and if Stiles urged him to the right they would find the hill leading to the beach, but Stiles didn't want to go to the beach. Or did he? His mother had loved the beach and they had often come to spend a few days at one stretch of sand or another.

Looking down the waterline, he could see the sand in the distance, and he shook his head. He did not want to go to the beach. Alone there, wind billowing around him, he let himself do what he didn't do in front of his peers, not even in front of his father. He cried. It had been six years but it still felt like yesterday and his chest still ached on the anniversary, and the cruelest twist of life was that he couldn't even express his grief in polite society.

"Stiles?"

He sucked up his sobbing breath and nearly choked, and his hands sprang to his face, trying to rub away the tears on his cuffs before Derek could get close enough to see them. The other rode up on a black stallion looking too good to be true, and today really wasn't the day for that kind of thought process.

"Are you alright?" Derek asked.

"Fine," Stiles said and cleared his throat. He was sure he'd gotten the tears wiped away, but he probably still looked wrecked. "I'm fine. Just out for a ride. Obviously."

"Yes. Your father told me." Derek moved his horse closer, trying to get a clearer view of Stiles condition. "I came to see if you'd like to join me into town, to show me the equine shop, but I can see you're not really in a state to-"

"I said I'm fine!" Stiles shouted, and Derek didn't deserve that, but Stiles never let anyone see him grieve… not even people he was enamored of. Perhaps especially people he was enamored of. And yet Derek was here, of all places, and seeing him with his heart open.

Ashamed and angry, Stiles turned Roscoe toward the hill and road toward the beach to get away from Derek, but it didn't help. Derek called after him and followed his canter down the hill. Once on the sand, Stiles turned Roscoe to face Derek and then backed the horse up several steps to make space for Derek stopping his horse.

"I want to be alone," Stiles snapped. "Really, going to town is at the bottom of my list of things to do today. Honestly. Of all days, today is not the day. So if you would be so kind, Sir," and he said the title with enough stress to break it, trying to impose on Derek the implications of propriety it insinuated, including the propriety to leave when you weren't welcome.

But Derek didn't leave. He stepped his horse closer and Stiles backed his up. "Stiles, I understand. You father told me you ride every year on this date. He told me why."

"Then you know why I want you to leave," Stiles pointed out. "This is my time. Alone time. Without you time."

Roscoe disapproved of backing up further and veered slightly to the right, and now they were perpendicular to Derek's advance. But Derek stopped approaching as soon as Stiles could no longer escape.

He looked sincere in his third-party guilt, but it would take more than that to get him near to Stiles.

"I will leave you alone," Derek said and tightened his grip on his reins. "If that is what you want from me. But before you send me on my way," and here he did advance several steps, but Stiles did not move, "Do you truly want to be alone?"

Yes, he wanted to shout. Yes, he'd already said as much. But no one had ever asked him before, and in that moment, he actually thought about the answer. Did he want to ride alone on this day, as he had done every year in the past? Did he want to go home in time for dinner, in time to put on a smile and pretend he had recovered? Nothing ever changed, now did it?

"No," Stiles answered, and his eyes burned. "No, I want my mother back."

And then he couldn't help it. Audience or not, he started crying, and even putting his arm up to block his eyes did not stop the flow. He missed his mother more than he could say, but he knew his father too ached for her, and he couldn't put this kind of burden on him. He had to pretend he had moved on, had adjusted. He had to pretend he only ached for her as much as was civil in public, and that hurt more than he could bear.

He wanted to walk on the beach with her and talk with her about his secret, as he had done in her final days. She had never judged him ill. In fact, she was as sure as ever that he would one day be happy, and she spent her final private moments with him assuring him of that future and how proud she was of him.

He just wanted to talk with her once more. He needed her guidance, but all he could think of whenever he tried to remember her final words was her saying something cliché, that he should follow his heart in every moment. But if he followed his heart, he could ruin everything his family had ever established. Stiles was sarcastic and sometimes mean, but he was never cruel, and he couldn't bring that kind of shame on his family.

"Stiles." Derek had moved his horse close, had aligned them so he could get as close as possible while remaining in the saddle. He reached out and gently touched the side of Stiles' face, jolting the younger's senses and making him lower his arm. "You don't have to be alone."

Derek leaned forward and Stiles surprised himself by leaning in to meet him, and then touched their foreheads together. It was simple and yet intimate, and Stiles had resigned himself to never experiencing anything of the sort. In his emotional state, he almost started to cry again, but instead he just grabbed for Derek's shoulder, then moved to his neck.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, and he meant for shouting. "I just-"

"You needn't explain yourself to me," Derek cut in softly. "You understand my regrets more than anyone, I'm sure. The least I can do is try to understand yours."

Stiles took a slow breath and looked up into Derek's eyes as best he could. "Your regrets?" He didn't understand. They'd never spoken of Derek's pains or fears. They'd only met a few weeks ago. What about him could Stiles understand that other people didn't?

After a hesitant glance, Derek brought their faces closer still, and then their lips met. Stiles sucked in a sharp breath through his nose, but he didn't pull back. Taking that as encouragement, Derek kissed him again, and Stiles met him this time, lips parted. He dropped his reins and grabbed for Derek's other shoulder as they kissed again and again, and he was overcome.

He could still see his mother's face as he told her he didn't like any women at the balls, or any women at all. At the time he had more feelings for Scott than any of his female acquaintance. Beautiful as she was, both inside and out, she hadn't even flinched at the admission. But despite having his mother's approval, Stiles had never imagined she had been prophetic. Falling in love, kissing, having a life together – these were things Stiles would never have. He'd been so sure. And yet here was Derek, out of nowhere, and he was the same.

Suddenly the thought of his father slipped in to his blissful thoughts, and he ripped himself away from Derek's beautiful mouth.

"I can't," he said in a rush. "I'm not- I can't."

What if his father found out? What if the servants saw and rumors spread? What happened when the whole county knew? How could he have let himself be so unguarded around Derek? How could he have been so inconstant? He knew what revealing himself could mean, what it could do, and yet he'd just let Derek- had encouraged it! Oh heavens, he'd begun the path to ruin!

He couldn't breathe.

"I'm sorry," Derek said and released any hold he had on Stiles, and Stiles bent over his own saddle horn, gasping. "I shouldn't have done that. You were not stable. I took advantage. It was-… Are you alright?"

"I-," Stiles gasped and grasped wildly until he managed to snag Derek's wrist. "I can't breathe. I can't- I can't breathe!"

"Okay, hold- Just hold on a moment. We're going back to your house right now." Derek expertly switched horses, climbing onto Roscoe behind Stiles, and tied his own horse's reins around the saddle horn.

With a snap of his heels, he urged Roscoe to motion and they set off quickly for the house, Stiles shaking and unable to fill his lungs with air. He'd failed, that was all he could think of – that and all the retribution of God and country ready to fall upon him. The panic made him dizzy and before they had gone more than half a minute, he was shaking beyond his control.

The ride back was five minutes at full gallop, and servants met them at the back door, having seen them approaching wildly. They helped pull Stiles from the saddle, because by this point he could hardly move his limbs. He wanted to grab onto Derek, to hold him for stability, but that brought on new waves of panic and self-scolding, and he snapped his hands back, close to his torso.

"What happened?" Mr. Stilinski was in the hall as they entered.

"We met by the beach," Derek explained, distress in his every syllable. "He was as fine as could be expected on such a day and then… He said he couldn't breathe and then he could barely move, and I rushed him back as quickly as I could. I'm sorry. I fear it's my doing. I agitated some illness or-"

"No," his father assured as Stiles was helped to the couch. "It's not an illness. Not really. The doctor calls it Nerve Weakness. He's prescribed opiates but Stiles refuses the treatment. On a regular basis, he doesn't have fits. In fact this is the first he's had in… it must be two years."

"What causes the fits?" Derek asked, and Stiles knew he was worried he'd done something with the kisses. And in a way he had, but Stiles understood his own 'illness' more than even the stupid doctors, and it was not an issue with his nerves. It was panic, pure and simple. Derek hadn't caused the fit. Stiles' realization of the consequences did.

"When he was diagnosed, the doctors thought he wasn't getting enough air and sunshine. I took him into a different part of the country and it seemed to do him good. He had them all the time after his mother… After my wife left us," Mr. Stilinski explained. He was calm now that Stiles was home and being fretted over. "But I thought they had left him."

Derek did not look convinced that he was not the cause. "I apologize most sincerely, Mr. Stinilinski."

Stiles' father waved the apology away and put a hand on Derek's shoulder. "No, I'm glad you were there. Or no one would have known the fit was happening. It's better that he's home. Now he can rest and recover in peace. I know you were looking to spend the day with him, but maybe you should come back tomorrow. He should be recovered by then."

"I will," Derek assured, but then turned his eyes to Stiles for confirmation. "If Stiles doesn't mind."

Stiles still felt like someone was pressing down on his chest with the weight of a pianoforte, but he shook his head minutely anyway. He didn't mind. Not in the slightest. At the moment, Stiles could barely form words, and they needed to have a serious talk as soon as conceivably possible.

Derek did not come to visit the following day. Nor the next. By no fault of his own, the Hales had left Beacon Hills, at least for the week. In direct mirror of them, the Argents had come to visit for the week. They had heard of the ball, and of Allison being of particular determination to attend, and had made it a point of bringing the full family.

They were as sour a family as Stiles could ever have remembered. Mr. Chris Argent was a welcome familiarity and greeted Stiles upon seeing him with everything expected between common friends despite their age difference. His passably beautiful wife looked upon the exchange with distaste and only deigned to smile as much as could be considered civil. In her eyes, she had made it clear upon every visit she made to town, Beacon Hills was full of uncouth and foul men – undoubtedly Stiles' doing, and fared little better with its airheaded and talentless women. All lies, of course.

Oh, but nothing was as terrible as being forced to meet and greet with the old, craven Mr. Gerard Argent, who's greeting was a scowl to Stiles but an immediate, fake, but enthusiastic exclamation over Stiles' father and the surrounding gentleman of a decent age, who he claimed as old friends.

And maybe Stiles lied. Because the woman who stepped into the room after her father was perhaps Stiles' least favorite person in the whole of the world. Her and her father were arguably equal in their repulsions but Stiles had always felt the bite of Miss Kate Argent far more than that of her father. Her bite was a lasting, painful thing that flared up at the mere mention of her, much more so in her actual presence, and Stiles bristled when her eyes landed on him.

She grinned, something predatory.

"Stiles!" she greeted loudly, using no honorifics and claiming him on a first name basis. She drew attention, however, so he could not treat her cruelly in return.

"Miss Argent," he said, short and blunt. "I didn't, er, expect you."

"Well the Greenburgs throw a great party, or so I'm told. I couldn't pass on such an opportunity. Plus I heard tale that the Hales were in town. Although it appears they've up and left us quite suddenly. Suspicious, but I won't judge," she said, all sweetness and standing far too close no matter how Stiles tried to distance them.

"You are familiar with the Hales?" he asked, dodging an attempt by her to lay her hand on his shoulder.

"You could say that," she said and nodded. Then she slipped her arm around his and began to walk, and he could not extricate himself without causing a scene. He was forced by propriety to accompany her a short distance. "We met up north some years back."

"I assume you and Peter Hale got on quite well," Stiles said with only a hint of a sneer.

"You would assume correctly," Kate agreed but only seemed more pleased the more displeased Stiles showed himself to be. "He and I were quite alike in our thoughts. I tried, and he assisted me, to court the young Mr. Hale, of course, but he would not have me."

With a start, Stiles asked, "We're talking of Mr. Derek Hale now?"

"The one and only," Kate agreed. They had made it halfway around the room by now and she lowered her voice to whisper to him. "He may not be of the courting type, if you understand me."

"I'm sure I don't," Stiles replied and tried to pull away. "But then you and I were never of the same mind."

"On this matter I'm sure we should be, as should everyone else, although I won't be the one to start a scandalous rumor. But I assure you, Mr. Hale and myself were engaged on the daily and I don't believe he once ever looked seriously my way." Kate took a moment to laugh softly. "That must sound vain, but I assure you vanity had nothing to do with it. He treated me with every kindness, but I never saw him once look at me or any woman."

This was not news for Stiles, of course. Derek had kissed him only a few days prior. But at least he now had it from a third party source that it hadn't been some fluke or charade of Derek's. Despite who he was speaking to, Stiles felt his stomach stir pleasantly, but then he squashed the feeling. He had to have a talk with Derek. He had to end any notion of a relationship before Derek got too far carried away with his own thoughts and desires.

"I'm sure he just saw no woman that suited his fancy," Stiles assured and managed to pull his arm free. "Like me, he is waiting for the right one."

Now Kate's predatory grin was back and she almost purred. "Oh, Stiles. Everyone knows of your intentions already. No need to play coy."

"My intentions?" he asked, brow knit in absolute confusion. His heart sped within his chest. Had he been so obvious that others already knew of his affection for Derek? Is that why Kate had brought him up?

"For Miss Martin, of course," Kate said and motioned behind Stiles to where the pretty young woman was dressed as perfectly as a doll, in the same red as accented Stiles' outfit. "Even Mr. Whittemore is delicate with how much he does when you're around. You should truly just take her as your wife already. She is obviously open to the suggestion, and it isn't polite to toy with a woman's feelings."

"But-"

Stiles didn't get to finish. Miss Argent gently bopped him on the nose and began to stroll away. "Take my words to heart, Mr. Stilinski. Strike while the iron is hot or someone else might steal her away." And the way she said it almost suggested that Kate Argent herself was the one who might 'steal' Lydia away.

Except Lydia wasn't an object that could be stolen, and she wasn't Stiles' in any case. Such a suggestion was- It was ludicrous! Did people honestly believe…

Did Derek believe? No. He somehow knew, where no one else did, of Stiles' affections. He'd said so before the kiss. They'd kissed! There was no way Derek thought Stiles' heart was tied to Lydia. But then there was another awful suggestion in Kate's words. Did Lydia think Stiles was in love with her? Had he been foolishly toying with her emotions, oblivious to their intensity? Had he been such a fool?

Stiles quickly passed through the party attendees, past Scott and Allison holding hands, past his father and Mr. Argent, past everyone, to make it to Jackson and Lydia. Jackson did not shrink from Stiles' presence as Kate had suggested he'd do, but that was good. Lydia, however, looked quite shocked.

"Stiles, you look flushed. Is everything alright?" she asked, reaching out to touch his face. He caught her hand, startling her, and then let it drop quickly.

"My apologies. Lydia, may I speak with you in private?" he asked in a rush, keeping his voice low so as not to draw attention. Unfortunately he had already garnered some in his direct rush to make the appeal.

Without hesitation, Lydia stepped away from Jackson and took Stiles' hand. "Of course," she said and looked around for some place quiet where they could talk. Then she led him through the crowds and out of the house, into the lawn beyond.

Lanterns and the moon gave passable lighting, and they only stopped when they came to a bench over thirty feet from the nearest listeners.

"What's wrong? You look awful." And now he did let her touch his face, feeling for a fever, and push back his hair.

"I know this will sound crass and could injure you, but I have to ask," Stiles said, frowning. If she did love him and she stopped being friends with him over his own emotions, Stiles would never forgive himself. He swallowed thickly. "Are you in love with me?"

The silence was thick as the shock took over Lydia face, but after a short moment she softened and even smiled. "Is that what causes your anxiety? Heavens, I thought your nerves would give out again." She took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh of relaxation. Her hand cupped his cheek intimately. "Stiles, I love you as a woman loves a brother, a best friend, but nothing more. And that should soothe your nerves."

"You aren't afraid that I'm in love with you?" Stiles asked. Kate had made it sound so obvious, and he had to admit his actions would suggest such a thing. How did Lydia know Stiles would not be injured by her admission?

With a playful grin, Lydia pulled her hand away and gently smacked him. "I have known you for the better part of my life, Stiles. If anyone were to know of your preferences, it would be me." His eyes widened but she shook her head. "No need for dramatics. I have never thought you any different from anyone else. But it did give me permission to be close to you without worry for my honor. I cannot say the same for any other man. I love you, Stiles Stilinski, all the better for the secret I keep with you."

"If you know," he said, breathless with relief, "then perhaps you know. I mean, perhaps you know my other secret, the one I cannot act on even now that it exists in the realm of possibility. Because you know, then you also know that any act on the second secret would ruin my father's reputation."

Lydia did not look impressed. She shrugged. "What I know is that I heard a rumor that the Hales and the Argents are barely on speaking terms because Mr. Derek Hale insulted the pride of their daughter, quite publically if the gossips are to be believed. What I know is that Mr. Derek Hale pays particular attention to a subject if you are involved in the slightest, that he went to your house last week with the intent to spend the day in town in your company, and that he left in quite a state of anxiety over a flare-up of your notorious nerves. I have heard no rumors about what caused the nerves, but knowing you as extensively as I do, I hazarded a guess that the two of you perhaps shared a special interaction and you over thought things, as you are expected to do."

"Your intellect is something to be feared, indeed, Lydia," Stiles allowed, "But again, you must know that I did not over think anything. In fact, I only came to understand the severity of my condition and how close I came to undoing all my family has worked for, how much I have worked for. All these years and I almost threw it away for a kiss."

"A good kiss is nothing to be idle about," Lydia assured, patting his knee. "But no, I assure you, I do not know of any such outcome. You over think most things, and I am not wrong about this one. You are right, of course, that propriety expects you to marry a woman, but propriety makes the exception that no one can force you to marry under pressure except, perhaps, your father. But we both know he won't do such a thing. So people may gossip about you not marrying, but after a time, no one will bring it up in your presence."

"So I will be the topic of gossip, will I?" Stiles asked, upset. "Forever a lonely bachelor, lamented by old women and giggled at by young girls who wonder if they might suit my fancy?"

"Undoubtedly so," Lydia agreed, but she was smiling. "But you shall not be lonely, I'm sure. You shall have to share such a burden with the only other un-widowed bachelor in the county." After a dull moment where Stiles searched his mind fruitlessly for who she could be referring to, Lydia let out an exasperated air. "I speak of Mr. Derek Hale, of course. Honestly, Stiles, sometimes I doubt a comment I once made that claimed you as the smartest man of my acquaintance… Although I suppose exceptions must be made for those in love."

"In love?" Stiles exclaimed. "I've only known him but a month!"

"I knew Jackson but a week before I knew I would one day be his wife. It should be further comfort for you to know he asked for my hand in matrimony only an hour ago. The rumors of our illicit love should dissipate in the wake of wedding plans." She smiled then and took his hands in hers. "All will end well, and I will always be your friend."

"Thank you." Stiles frowned then, taking in all he had heard, and then his eyebrows shot up. "You are engaged?! This very night? Just now?"

"Quite," Lydia agreed, her own smile growing, a silent pride showing through that she had won the man she desired.

Stiles pulled her close and embraced her tightly. "I am so happy for you! This is wonderful news! Even if I don't like your betrothed. But I will hold in my dissatisfaction, lest someone mistake it for jealousy. And you must insist I be privy to the wedding party, even if Jackson disagrees. Agreed?"

"Agreed. Now can we move on from being morbid about your love life? We've cleared the air. Now we must prepare you for when the Hales return."

Return the Hales did. Between the Argents taking their leave and preparations for the wildly anticipated wedding, Stiles almost forgot to worry about Derek coming back. Lydia had been right, of course. Rumors of their secret love in Beacon Hills had vanished. No one even spoke of Stiles perhaps harboring jealousy. He was so animatedly involved in the wedding plans that no one could doubt his sincere happiness over the match and looming nuptials.

When the day came that the Hale house was once again inhabited, Stiles was in his horse paddock, choosing a steed for Lydia's wedding gift. Four foals trotted lazily around him while Stiles' Head of Horse held a fifth still. Stiles ran his hands along the shoulders, back, croup, and buttock to check for conformation. Nothing less than the best of the Stilinski herd would be acceptable. The fifth horse was the last in need of check before he stepped back to monitor temperament before making his final selection.

Horse five had a good slope to the shoulders, a level croup. The withers were high and extended back farther than the previous four, suggesting it would take a saddle the best. The thigh, the flank, the gaskin, the cannon – all showed signs of the well breeding that went into all the colts, but Stiles was feeling drawn to the fifth horse already.

"Mr. Hale to see you, Sir," a servant announced.

Stiles pulled a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and wiped his hands clean as he resumed standing after his check of the fetlocks. "Thank you, Parrish. You can let him go now," he said with a nod to his Head of Horse.

"Alright by me, Mr. Stilinski," Parrish said and pet the horse's poll before releasing it to wander freely in the paddock with the others.

When his hands were passably clean, Stiles slid the kerchief in his pant pocket and turned to greet Derek, who was standing surprisingly stiff on the other side of the fence.

"You look intense," Stiles commented, walking over and leaning on the wood. "Is your family returned with you?"

"Yes. My mother wishes to settle in the county, but she is still in discussion with the landowner," Derek announced. "We heard news on our trip back. I believe congratulations are in order."

"Oh, yes." Stiles smiled wide. "The wedding is a month out still, of course, but I'm sure Lydia would love to hear it from you. I asked why she didn't move the date up to next week, but there was some issue of relatives coming from the north who wouldn't be available? I don't pretend to understand. I just nod and smile."

For a moment, Derek looked amused, but then he cleared his throat and frowned. With a short nod of his head he motioned to the colts. "Wedding gift?"

"Right again. My favorite is the white one. See how she carries her head high? But I figured it was only fair to give the others a try." He turned to lean backwards on the fence so he could admire the young horses some more. "Lydia's family only owns ponies for the coach and barouche, but she's always enjoyed riding with me. I figured it was time she owned and raised her own riding companion."

"Very kind of you." But something in Derek's tone suggested he was saddened by the idea.

Stiles turned around again and frowned at his friend, at his romantic attachment. "You don't sound well," he said. "Do you have a problem with me giving Lydia a colt?" Don't say Derek was one of those men who thought ladies shouldn't ride.

"No. No. Not at all," Derek assured, shaking his head. "I'm quite happy for Miss Lydia. It is a fine wedding present."

"But?" Stiles prompted and bent down to slip through the fence so there was only air between them.

Uncomfortable was not a look Derek typically wore around Stiles, especially not in private. Yet there he was, at a loss for words and looking for all the world as though he had the unfortunate duty of informing Stiles his prized pointer had died. Which was ridiculous. The pointer was his father's, for one. For another thing, it was in annoyingly good health. Stiles would be pleased when it died, to be honest. It barked too early in the morning for his taste. But his dad loved that dog to pieces. It had been just a puppy when his mother had picked it out and only a year old when she had died.

"I had hoped, upon my return," Derek began, drawing Stiles' thought from his mother and the dog, "that we would continue our conversation from the beach. I had hoped your heart was not so cold to my intentions, as ill-timed as they were."

"I was not cold to your intentions," Stiles said, brow knitting curiously. "I had a crisis of duty, not a crisis of emotion."

"And so your duty urged you into matrimony?" Derek asked, a hint of anger slipping in. "You could not wait to speak with me before you-" He cut himself off, looking away and pressing the back of his hand to his lips. His eyebrows were tight together, straining to keep in his words.

But what were these words? Matrimony? Stiles?

"I am not engaged," Stiles announced, and Derek snapped his head back to look at Stiles. "Lydia Martin marries Jackson Whittemore in a month's time. I'm sorry if rumors told you otherwise, but I am unattached."

"My uncle-," Derek began but then stopped. He smiled sourly as he looked at the ground. "Of course, I should have suspected when the news came from my uncle. But I had seen the way you were with Miss Martin. It made every normal sense."

"Your uncle is a drunkard and a letch and I wouldn't trust him with a kitten," Stiles pointed out. "But don't let him distress you. He's not worth a bullet, after all." And he smiled at the little joke they'd started so many weeks ago in the forest.

Derek smiled too and even laughed. "So you are not engaged?"

Now it was Stiles turn to grin and he slipped his hands into his pockets. "No."

"Then may I ask for a private counsel with the young Mr. Stilinski?" Derek took a step forward and now there was barely two feet betwixt them. Any closer and he may draw suspicion.

Casting a glance around the estate, Stiles spotted Parrish across the paddock and knew the honorable Head of Horse would say nothing if he took any notice of them being anything but civil, but he was not the only one within view. A couple stable hands and some servants tending the lawn were variable parties that Stiles did not wish to tempt with any notion of a scandal or gossip.

"Come with me," he said and led the way back into the house. A servant met him at the door and took his used kerchief while another offered him a cool towel for his face and neck.

He thanked them when he was finished and they scampered away while Stiles headed upstairs to his library. Derek followed quietly through the ordeal. Stiles held the door open for Derek to pass, and no sooner than the door had been shut than Derek was upon him, pressing him back into the door.

An attempt to kiss Stiles once more was attempted, but he made a noise of surprise and blocked the effort. Derek pulled back instantly. "I apologize. Whenever we find ourselves alone, I feel I can hardly control my feelings. You must rebuke me."

"You're terrible," Stiles supplied, but it held no heat and Derek did not look satisfied. "There is time enough for rebuking later. But for now we have a serious matter to discuss."

"Of course." Derek did, in fact, look subdued after that line. He lowered his eyes to the floor and was the perfect vision of shame. "I have now accosted you twice without taking your feelings into consideration. Last time you fell into a fit, and that should have been rebuke enough. Are you feeling alright this time?"

"That brings me to my first point," Stiles announced. "I could not explain at the time, but the fit was of my own doing, not yours. I had so thoroughly lost myself in the notion that you would want to kiss me that the sudden thought of my family's reputation shocked me and I was so ashamed and fearful of what I had done that I panicked and could not stop. I wanted to be clear with you that you were not solely at fault for my 'fit'. We were equal partners in it."

"I still caused it… But now tell me, why would you panic? We were alone on the waterfront," Derek asked, and they were still close, but Derek's eyes were no longer on the floor.

Stiles was still pressed against the door. "My family has been an honorable one since its inception, save the one childless uncle who was suspected but never charged of killing his wife, and the thought that I may bring it all to ruin by letting myself fall so publically into my admiration for you… I might apologize now, but I was ashamed then." He cast his eyes away from Derek to look, unseeingly, at the closest volumes. "I have lived my whole life knowing of my secret imperfection, my perfect scandal. And I have done so well in my nineteen years as to hide it from all but my closest friend. I worry I will make a paltry attempt to change. It is so engrained in me, in everyone, to act as propriety demands."

There was the perfect length of silence to greet such an explanation, just long enough to let the words touch every inch of the space they were in but no further. Then Derek took a long breath and said, "As I said on the beach, you understand my regrets so well, more clearly than any other man I've met." He took Stiles' hand and pressed his lips to the back of it, causing Stiles' stomach to knot. "I have tried in vain to feel as other men do, and I lied to polite society for these past thirty years and did quite well in not telling anyone… until the day of our arrival in Beacon Hills. You were hiding your vexation over the party well, but not well enough, and I wished I could express my disinterest in being in such a gathering of people as well as you did. I could not take my eyes from you and took every opportunity to be near you. I had never before been so drawn to another living soul, so completely entrapped from the first glance. Listen, I am making a speech, and that is something I simply don't do."

"Well it is a very lovely speech," Stiles offered as compensation. He smiled then, could not help it, and looked down in case his cheeks were flushing. "I believe we may indeed be experiencing the same problem of heart and mind, Mr. Hale, for I could not stop thinking of you for the whole of the evening, despite my best efforts and successes at doing so with previous men."

The hand holding Stiles' tightened slightly in the wake of hope. "May I be so bold as to entreat a second, or should I say a third?, attempt to claim your lips?"

"You may, and I may accept your advance, but despite the lovely Miss Soon-to-be-Whittemore's counsel, I must warn you that I am still my father's son and do still have a weighty reputation to uphold in public," Stiles said, but in his heart of hearts, he hoped the information did not dissuade Derek from the third attempt. He was so ready to be kissed again.

"That is a burden indeed," Derek agreed, but he was smiling. It was his warm smile from the shop so long ago and it melted any possible resistance Stiles may have still put up. "But I have a simple cure for your ailing."

Their lips met and met and met until Stiles had lost count of the number of connections and simply sighed with peaceful longing when Derek pulled back.

"I shall simply have to be content with being only your friend in public, as propriety wills, and being given leave to touch you as I wish only in private, away from prying eyes and in confidence with only the most trustworthy of servants." His smile turned snarky in the wake of what he undoubtedly thought was a brilliant plan.

And Stiles had to admit, the plan felt and sounded good to him as well. It had also been Lydia's suggestion after their lengthy discussion. Friends in public. More than friends in private. Undesirable, but it would sustain both of their reputations and merely doom them to unending bachelor-hood. Something told Stiles that Derek would be able to handle the appearance of such loneliness.

"Have you ever been with a man before?" Stiles asked, curiosity overtaking him.

"A few only," Derek assured. "And never of the high society brand. I was always the peak of discretion, and they were only for the single night I met them on. I'm sure this sounds crass, but I was certain I had no options otherwise, especially with anyone of my own class."

With a calm expression, Stiles assuaged Derek's worry. "This is a small blessing. Otherwise we both would have entered into this arrangement as fools, and then we'd find greater chance of revealing ourselves. You have done the proper beginning research, Mr. Hale."

Derek kissed him again and murmured, "Derek," against his lips.

"Derek," Stiles repeated, and it was a name that he would mostly use only in private. The name now sent a flurry through his entire body and he shivered after it. "Derek."

He shivered again and Derek kissed him more, his hands finding Stiles' hips. After so long of not being touched at all, of not imagining it ever to be possible, Stiles was satiated in the moment with the simple slide of Derek's large hands over his clothed body. For the first day of their transgressions, it was more than enough. In fact, it almost brought him to tears. So long he had gone without hope, without truly dreaming, and here he had something that may actually last beyond the end of him sleeping.

His shaking became so much that Derek stopped kissing him and simply wrapped him in a warm embrace, rubbing his back in consolation. Stiles held him in return so fiercely as if to say he would never be letting go, and that seemed to sit just fine with Derek Hale.

In the future, Stiles could see them standing politely on the edges of parties and only being entreated to dance if there were a noticeable number of young women in need of partners, or if their friends and family pulled them thither. They would visit each other daily and be regarded as the most intimate of friends, sharing in the odd trait of having very little interest in marriage of any sort and being resigned to the life of bachelors forever. It was a public life of very little drama but also no loss of propriety or reputation, and Stiles liked it very much – liked it more with every passing hour, with each day laid out before him.

He had someone, finally, and with Lydia his eternal confidant, he found he was at peace with the world at last.


End file.
